John August

Scriptnotes, Episode 622: The One with Christopher Nolan, Transcript

Scriptnotes Transcript

The original post for this episode can be found here.

John August: Hello and welcome. My name is John August, and this is Episode 622 of Scriptnotes, a podcast about screenwriting and things that are interesting to screenwriters.

Our guest today is the writer-director of the acclaimed indie films Following and Memento. He’s gone on to make movies including The Prestige, Insomnia, Interstellar, Inception, Tenet, and The Dark Knight trilogy. His latest film is Oppenheimer. Welcome to the podcast, Christopher Nolan.

Christopher Nolan: Thank you very much.

John: We’re so excited to have you here. It’s great to finally meet you, because I’ve known your brother Jonah for a long time. He’s been on the show two or three times, but I’ve never met you.

Christopher: Very nice to meet. He speaks very highly of you.

John: Usually, when Jonah’s on with Lisa, we’re talking television, because they are mostly making television stuff. Today I only want to talk about big screen movie stuff and just stuff that’s on giant screens, stories that tell themselves in two hours or a little bit more than two hours.

Christopher: It’s a while since I hit two hours.

John: Absolutely.

Christopher: But yes.

John: But also, stories that are a onetime journey, where it’s not about coming back for next week.

Christopher: Absolutely. No, a very different shape to things.

John: I want to get into that. I want to get into your history with cinema, how you think about movies, your work as a screenwriter who is going to be directing your own movies. Then we’ll look at some scenes from Oppenheimer and really look at how those scenes work on the page.

Christopher: Great.

John: Then in our bonus segment for premium members, I’d love to ask you a listener question. They wrote in with a general question, but you’re the perfect person to answer it, because they asked about dreams in movies and how dreams in movies function. You’re a person who has some experience with dreams in movies.

Christopher: I do, yeah. I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about that and trying to make that work, so yeah, happy to talk about it.

John: Cool. Let’s get into it. You are five days older than me, but have a very different history going into it. When I look through the stories of Christopher Nolan as a young child, he picked up his father’s Super 8 camera and started shooting films. Is that accurate, or is that just a story that people tell? That’s how it really started?

Christopher: No, it’s accurate. I mean, look, at our age that was the thing. The Super 8 camera was the go-to mechanism for recording family images back then if your family was lucky enough to have one. My dad had one he was very pleased with and proud of. He lent it to us as kids, which now as a parent, I don’t know what he was thinking. We did wind up destroying it eventually. In later years, I strapped it to the bottom of a car and broke it. He was very upset with me. But that was some years later. For my whole childhood, I was always filming things and putting images together, trying to cut images together on the old Moviola, Super 8’s wonderful format.

John: We had to do it in film school. We had to use Super 8s. You’re literally just taping little pieces of film to the wall as you’re trying to put stuff together. It’s so barbaric and primitive.

Christopher: It is, but I just unboxed the brand new Kodak Super 8 camera that they’ve been promising for years to make. It’s finally a real thing.

John: It’s great.

Christopher: It keeps coming back. It’s a wonderful format.

John: Now, you had the technology to shoot little films, but did you have a sense of what cinematic storytelling was? Because it’s one thing to have a camera. You’ve seen movies. But when did you have a sense that there was a script before there was a movie? In trying to make those early experiments, were you writing anything, or were you just going out and shooting stuff?

Christopher: No, we were just going out and shooting things. I really was seven years old, eight years old, getting together with friends and doing riffs on Star Wars that had just come out. The interesting part about that as it relates to narrative is that it’s different for different writers, but for me as a filmmaker first and foremost, writing came to me over time as a way of formalizing my instinctive process of putting one image after another to create some kind of sensation of narrative. We’re talking silent Super 8 films. As these things become longer, as you move into 16 mil and you start making things that you need more structure to, need more form to, then you start writing.

That to me is always something I’ve tried to bear in mind about my own process is that when you embrace the screenplay form, as I have over the years, and come to really love it, you always have to remind yourself that the initial impulse, and therefore the thing that people are watching films for, is that string of images telling a visual narrative when we’re talking about cinema. It’s nice to have that recollection, to have that physicality of holding images in my hand, taping them together. It stays with me just as a sort of guiding principle as I’m getting lost in the words.

John: You talk about moving from the Super 8’s images, a series of images, to having to figure out a bigger plan for it. It reminds me of actually the history of film cinemas. The initial things, the original screenplays were just a list of shots, and eventually had to figure out like, “Oh no, it’s a little bit more like a play. We have characters interacting with each other. We actually need to find ways to portray that.”

Christopher: Yeah. It’s very interesting, I think, to try and analyze how screenwriting fits in with editing. As a writer-director, I do a lot of editing on the page. I very much enjoy the technology we have with word processing. It’s technology that’s been around a long time. But I wrote my first screenplay on a manual typewriter, so to me it’s still a bit of an innovation.

I love overwriting and then editing the same way I edit the images and, indeed, the dialogue and stuff when we get in the edit suite. I think the relationship between the two is very interesting, because editing is a key feature of cinema that’s not shared in other media. Eisenstein, he summarized it, “Shot A plus Shot B gives you Thought C.”

In the case of Oppenheimer, for example, this came into play in a very major way when I went to the Institute of Advanced Study, which is where Oppenheimer is the director. We filmed there eventually. I met the current – or he was then the director of the IAS, Robert Dijkgraaf, very brilliant string theorist, brilliant scientist. I was talking about what I was doing in the film and how I was going to try and show the thought process of a quantum physicist thinking about atoms, thinking about molecules. He said this terrifying thing to me. He said, “Of course, a lot of the scientists at the time in the 1920s were alienated by the fact that you could no longer visualize the atom.” As a filmmaker, you’re going, “Hang on. That’s the job I’m going to have to do.”

I’d written this into the script as indications of types of images and tried to do it in a relatively free form, poetic way, just to suggest to everybody what it might be. But in talking to Dijkgraaf, I started to realize that what we can do with imagery, with editing, is we can take Image A, Image B, make Thought C. If you’re dealing with, for example, the duality of waves and particles when you talk about light, to be able to show waves, show particles, have the audience combine them in their minds. I was dealing with that at script stage, but also thinking ahead technically to where that’s going to be.

I think that one of the things that I try to do in my writing at a certain point – it’s not usually with the first draft – or maybe in one area of the script or something, I’ll try to start thinking like an editor as I’m writing, and how the juxtaposition of images is going to be something more. I don’t know. I would be interested to get your thoughts. It’s intriguing to speculate, does the screenplay form sufficiently communicate the editing process, can it sufficiently communicate the editing process? I try to game the system by – in Oppenheimer I put all the black-and-white scenes into italics, for example – trying to find ways to give the reader the feeling of editing.

John: Greta Gerwig was in your seat a couple years ago talking through Little Women. That was a story that also jumped back and forth between a present timeline and a past timeline. For her script, all the scenes that were in the past were in red. Rather than in italics, they were in red. We talked through that as a process.

For folks who haven’t seen the Oppenheimer screenplay, if you’ve seen the movie, you know that there’s two concurrently running stories. There’s Fission and Fusion. Fission is Oppenheimer’s story more directly. It’s in color. That’s him telling his story. It’s the “I, narrator” part of that. Then there’s the story of Fusion, which is the investigation after the fact. It’s all done in black and white. In the screenplay version of it, all those black-and-white scenes are in black and white. How early on in the process of putting this together did you realize you were going to tell those two stories that way, that those were going to be in black and white, and that on a page you would delineate them differently?

Christopher: Really before I wrote anything, other than notes. My process has tended to be more and more one of spending months thinking about the film, thinking about the script, what it’s going to be, and almost not letting myself write until I feel like really I’m ready to go, like I really need to. Structure to me is part of that.

My first film, a film called Following, which is shot 16 mil, black and white, has a nonlinear structure. I came up with the structure before I wrote the script. That’s what I generally do. It’s three braided timelines. I decided the way I want to write the script, I’m going to write it chronologically, so that everything makes sense, and I know that it all works, base rules, and then I’m going to cut it up. In fact, then I was probably physically cutting up. Actually, I think I had a word processor for my second draft. But for the first draft, where I wrote it chronologically, I was typing it out and then cutting and pasting it to the structure. That didn’t work very well, because what I found is you then had to rewrite endlessly to try and create the flow.

John: Because the experience of the reader, the experience of the viewer is going to be start to finish.

Christopher: Exactly.

John: They’re not jumping that same way that you are.

Christopher: They’re not jumping that same way. What I had uncovered is the reason why applying an editorial structure to a project that didn’t have it baked into the script never works. The studios will go to that sometimes. It’s sort of, “How do we say this thing?” But you always feel it, because it has to be part of the script.

Now, with Following, it was written to the structure. In my mind, I’d figured it out, but I thought that I would cleverly write it chronologically, rearrange it. The amount of rewriting involved in that was such that I’ve never done that since. I’ve always now written, whatever the structure is, I write from page 1 through to page 123 or whatever, or in the case of Oppenheimer, 180.

That way, when you’re doing a film like Memento, for example, which has an inverted chronology… I say nonlinear because – it’s actually very linear – it’s very connected, but it is inverted. If you analyze that screenplay, I wrote it from the first image that the audience would see to the last, so it has a conventional three-act structure underneath, or underpinning the more elaborate temporal construction of it. I think that’s an important reason why the film worked for an audience.

John: When you’re writing a script, be it Following or be it Oppenheimer, who is your intended reader? Who do you visualize reading the script, or do you visualize a person who’s sitting there reading through the script, and that you are whispering in their ear to them the story?

Christopher: I think it depends on what mood I’m in. I think sometimes it’s the person at the studio who’s going to read it, literally, because you’re thinking about you’re selling something that you already know is worthwhile, if you like. But at other times, it’s very much for myself or for a perceived audience.

I always try to view the screenplay first and foremost as a movie that I’m watching. I’m seeing it as a series of images. I’m imagining watching it with an audience. Then I think before I ever show it to anyone, there’s a pass where I’m imagining the studio reading it. What do we actually have on the page? What works?

One of the big differences I’ve found in terms of nonlinear construction – I think right back to Following, every project I’ve done – when I’ve got into the edit suite, I have found the need to combine the first two sections of any nonlinear, segmented timeline. I did it with Following. I did it with Memento, definitely. I did it with Batman Begins, I remember. Oppenheimer, we did that.

What I’ve come to realize over the years is, because when you show someone a screenplay with a nonlinear structure, you have to teach the readers the structure right away. But movie audiences don’t respond to that. If you’re jumping around too much at the beginning of a movie, the audience just lets it wash over them, and they wait for the movie to start. They wait to find their feet. With every project, I’ve simplified the structure at the front-end so that the audience can connect with the characters and can connect with the type of narrative it is, and then you start jumping around.

I’m fascinated by these things. It’s an area where you see the inadequacy of the screenplay formatting. A lot of filmmakers have chafed at this. Stanley Kubrick famously would swap around the margins and have the dialogue run to the outside margins and the stage directions in the middle. Everyone’s struggling against, “Okay, how do I make a film on the page?” I’m fascinated by that. I don’t mind it. I enjoy the screenplay format very much. I could never write a novel. I wouldn’t know how to find an authorial voice in that way. I love the screenplay form, because it’s stripped down, bare bones. You’re writing things as if they were facts, things that happened. For me, it’s a really fun way to write, but there are these endless conundrums. Do you portray the intentionality of the character? Do you portray a character opens a drawer looking for a corkscrew?

John: That’s information that’s not necessarily in evidence, but-

Christopher: Unless they pull the corkscrew out-

John: Absolutely.

Christopher: … how is anyone ever going to know that? I started off in my early scripts being very, very rigid. I wouldn’t even use a character name until somebody had called the character by name. That was very useful for me as a screenwriter but also as a director, a writer-director, because it meant that I was always aware of the fact of have I communicated the information about who this character is or haven’t I.

The problem is you have to show the script to a lot of people who aren’t reading your screenplay as a movie. They’re reading it as a screenplay. They’re reading it for information about what character they’re playing or what costumes are going to be in the film or whatever that is. Over the years, it varied project to project, but you try to find a middle ground where you’re giving people the information they need, but you’re not violating what you consider your basic principles as a writer.

With Oppenheimer, I decided to write the script in the first person. In doing that, I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t cheating, because the temptation if you start writing the first-person, start writing the, “I went into the room. I sat down at the desk,” all the rest, I love the effect that had on the writing and the relationship with the reader to the film, but I didn’t want to cheat. And so what I did is I wrote quite a few scenes at the beginning, maybe almost the whole first act in the third-person, conventionally, so that I knew that everything worked technically the way it needed to for a screenplay. Then I put it into first-person without changing anything other than the… That worked beautifully for me. That hooked me right in. I knew I wasn’t cheating. I wasn’t describing thoughts that no one would be able to convey, that kind of thing.

John: For listeners who haven’t read through these pages yet, it’s a little shocking at first, when you first come across the “I” on the page. You’re reminded that screenplays are traditionally written in either the third-person or the second-person plural, “we hears,” “we sees,” as if you’re an audience member staring up at the screen. In your screenplay, I still feel like I’m an audience member watching, but the “I” in this is Oppenheimer. In all the places where you would’ve had to type Robert or Oppenheimer, you’re typing “I,” and there’s “mes” and there’s some “wes.” The first time you catch a “we,” you realize, oh, it’s not we as the audience, it’s Oppenheimer and another character, which is exciting and thrilling. But it does anchor us into his point of view through that whole sequence, that he is always the person driving that scene. He’s our POV character in all those moments.

Christopher: It was a big breakthrough for me. I knew the structure I wanted. I knew that I wanted to tell the story subjectively. But I knew that I didn’t want to use voiceover. The thing about voiceover, it’s seductive when you’re looking for a subjective storyteller, because of that first-person. I was actually stuck.

My brother Jonah and I, we were quarantining in a house together. I was writing downstairs. He was writing upstairs. Came up with this idea, and I thought, I’m not going to say anything to him. I’m just going to rewrite what I’ve done and then show him the first act, just say, “Look, just gut check, what do you think?” without drawing any attention to it, because I was very excited by it. It freed me up from feeling the need for voiceover, because I felt that the script was giving me the subjectivity in a different way. He read it and was like, “Yep, don’t know why no one’s done that before, but that works.” What he said to me made me laugh. But for years and years, I’ve written scripts where you have to read the stage directions. I’ve never found any way to get anybody to read the stage directions.

John: Of course.

Christopher: He said to me, “You finally found a way to get people to read the stage directions,” because when you put them in the first-person, people value them as information, so they read all of them. Indeed, with this script, people really did read the stage directions in a way that they never have in my other scripts.

John: Since we’re on medium, would you mind reading, on page 1 of the script, it’s scene 2. Basically, we’ve opened the film with this imagery that you talk about, this poetic imagery, “A vast sphere of fire, the fire of a thousand suns, slowly eats the night-time desert.” There’s two quotes. But then rather than moving into a location, we’re landing on a face. Would you mind reading us that?

Christopher: Yeah, Scene 2. “A face. Gaunt, tense, eyes tightly shut. The face shudders- the sound ceases as my eyes open, staring into camera: Peer into my soul- J. Robert Oppenheimer, aged 50, close-cropped graying hair. The gentle sounds of bureaucracy… Super title: ‘1. Fission.'” That’s the one time where we have Fission, and then we have Fusion.

John: How early on in the process did you decide to start in this moment? Through a lot of this movie, we’re inter-cutting between two hearings or two moments, two events. One is this room, 2022, this Atomic Energy Commission interview. There’s also a Senate hearing. How early in the process did you know that those were going to be keystone, anchoring moments for the story?

Christopher: I had to know that before I started writing the script. I can only start writing when I have the structure in place. I was adapting American Prometheus, wonderful book by Kai Bird and Martin Sherwin. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 2005, I think. It took 25 years of research and writing for these guys to produce this book. It’s this incredible resource, but it’s 700-and-something pages. It’s a massive tome. My approach was to read it, not take notes, nothing, read it again. I read it a couple of times and then just spent a lot of time thinking about what had struck me about it, about what I was interested in, what I would tell somebody about this story. Based on those notes, I started to feel out what were the things that were going to give me the structure I wanted. I knew I wanted subjectivity. In a way, to do that, I felt like I also needed objectivity crosscut with that. I needed two timelines braided together.

There’s a reference about two-thirds of the way through American Prometheus. There’s a reference to the Senate confirmation hearings that Lewis Strauss, ultimately the antagonist, we’ll reveal to be the antagonist in the story, was subjected to. As a writer, immediately grabbed that and went, oh, there’s a really interesting relationship between what happened to him in five years – I think it was five years later, ’59 and ’53 – what he had done to Oppenheimer and then what was done to him. Very, very similar. As a writer, you’re always looking for those kind of poetic echoes, those kind of rhyming relationships in narrative. I chased that down.

I went to the Senate congressional record of those hearings, went through the testimony and found some incredible things in there, and then started to create in my mind this timeline of, okay, if we keep coming back to this, we keep coming back to the greenroom, him preparing for his testimony, and then eventually we go in and we see the testimony. We see those things based on the transcript, when scientists came and testified against him in this very public way. I got really interested in the parallelism with the security clearance hearings of Oppenheimer, which were done in exactly the opposite way.

What happened to Strauss was very, very public, and it was in a very grand setting, in Washington. What he had put in place, orchestrated for Oppenheimer, was more or less a broom closet. It was the most, deny him all of the limelight, sweep it all under the rug. The contrast of the two things, that, I started to get excited about. There are all kinds of interesting parallels of what happened to him.

For example, I started to realize, while reading the objections in the Oppenheimer transcript, which is also about a thousand pages – and I made it all the way through that one, because it’s so compelling – I found things like Oppenheimer strongly and his lawyers strongly objecting to the fact they had no list of witnesses. Strauss in the congressional testimony is making the same complaint, that they’re not giving him a list of witnesses. Things like that, that as a writer, you’re like, “This is such a gift.”

Then of course, you have the fun of going into these written transcripts that have no indication of tone, of voice. They’re not giving you any information. They’re very dry in terms of the format. In a funny sort of way, not to sound massively pretentious, but you have to interpret them. It felt a bit like what my friend Ken Branagh must do when he does a Shakespeare film, where he’s having to… Yeah, the words are there, but what are you going to do with them?

That was really a fun thing, but it also felt I’ve got a responsibility, actually, because you’re taking Edward Teller’s exact words that he said about whether Oppenheimer should be given the security clearance, and then you’re editing them, presenting them to the actor, presenting them dramatically in the screenplay, saying, what did that mean? I’m pretty sure I knew what it meant, but you don’t actually get to hear them say it, because there are no recordings.

John: You have the book. You have your original research in two different areas, all this stuff. But we skipped over the part of why you were curious about it in the first place. This is a book that existed, that was acclaimed, Pulitzer Prize-winning. But when did it enter into your orbit, and what made you read it the first time and the second time and the third time? When did you decide, “This is a story I want to tell. This is a movie I want to make.”

Christopher: Something of a long story. Oppenheimer first came into my consciousness when I was a teenager growing up in United Kingdom. The threat of nuclear weaponry was very much in the news. It was very much in the zeitgeist at the time. It was something we were all very, very concerned about.

John: We’re the same age. That very much was that experience. That was our anxiety source at all times.

Christopher: You remember the pop culture at the time, things like The Day After and Threads and these movies, When the Wind Blows, Sting’s song Russians, where he refers to Oppenheimer’s deadly toys. I think that’s probably the first time I encountered the name. Over the years, he’s a personage, I didn’t know a lot about him, but things about him would pop into my conscious, probably a lot from my brother, actually, who was very interested in these kind of things. But at some point, I got a hold of the bizarre fact that in the buildup to the Manhattan Project, Oppenheimer and his fellow scientists could not completely eliminate the possibility of a chain reaction that would destroy the world, and yet went ahead and pushed that button.

I included that in my previous film, Tenet, in the screenplay, because I needed a strong and understandable analogy for a very complex science fiction conceit. I think it was one of those moments of the screenplay, it always felt like it would probably come out of the finished film, because it’d be too much, too much dialogue, whatever. But when we would screen it for people, they grabbed a hold of the Oppenheimer name. It was something they knew a little bit about. Even if they’d never heard that story, they knew it was a real thing. So we kept it in the film, and it was important to us in the film.

As a wrap gift, Robert Pattinson, who’s in Tenet, he gave me a book of Oppenheimer’s published speeches from the 1950s, where he’s speaking to the issue of how to control what to do about this new technology they’ve unleashed on the world. It’s terrifying reading this stuff, reading these brilliant minds discussing how to stop the world being destroyed. It brought it all back to me, really.

Then Emma and I – Emma Thomas, my producer and my wife – we spent a weekend with our old friend Chuck Roven, who produced The Dark Knight trilogy with us. He suggested that I read American Prometheus. He knew the rights-holders. It was something he’d been trying to push forward. I read it, and it was that wonderful feeling you get where you’ve been interested in something, you’ve been trying to explore it in different ways, but not quite knowing what to do with it, and then you read this book that’s so definitive.

As a writer, when you’re working, particularly when you write on spec, because I always write on spec – I write the screenplay, and then I try to write a home for it – and so you don’t have a legal department. You’re on your own. It’s like, okay, I need authority. I need an authoritative source that I can contain myself to, just look at that, get my facts from there, and know that I’m playing in the world of credible, call it journalism, credible writing that’s been vetted over the years, so I’m dealing with the truth as best people can understand it. The different points of view are presented fairly, as they are in the book. It’s a very good book. That gave me the confidence to want to start telling the story. It started to show me what the shape of it could be. By dealing with J. Robert Oppenheimer as an individual, as a person, with all his human flaws, with all of his brilliance and all of that, how the entire history of nuclear weapons, the way in which the world had shifted and pivoted on its axis, it gives you a very accessible point of contact with that.

John: Yes. That’s great. Now, looking at your produced credits, this seems to be your first adaptation, or first real-life story, but you’ve gone through this process before. This wasn’t your first time tackling a historic subject to do this, right?

Christopher: For British people, Dunkirk is a very well-known, a very important piece of national history, or even mythology, really. As I approached it and I looked at and I researched it, I realized that to tell the story the way I felt it needed to be told, I couldn’t do that with real-life people. I needed to invent characters to take you through. It’s a slightly strange comparison, but it’s not unlike Titanic, what Cameron’s doing there, where he needs fictional characters to be able to move them through the event in such a way that you get a full understanding of the geography of it or the fact of it.

The thing about Dunkirk is it’s a story of collective endeavor. It’s a story about massive numbers of people and movements of people and how that works. There’s a tricky thing with how you approach that. A lot of filmmakers, a lot of writers have done it in very different ways. I think if you were writing it for television, it would be one approach. I think for a feature, what I felt would work – and it seemed to work well for audiences – was to create fictional characters with no backstories, no conventional character treatment.

The script was a very, very experimental document. It was very short. It was a 90-page script. The characters were really just their actions. That’s what these characters were. Some people you would show that to would get it. Some actors you show it to would be confused by that. Others would get it. But I felt that was the way to take you through that very large event and have an understanding of the geography of it, the politics of it, the thing of it. It was very minimalist dialogue. It was, as I say, no backstories for characters, things like that. It was very stripped down.

Coming to Oppenheimer, it’s a similarly important story. Dunkirk is sacred ground for British people. I think the Manhattan Project, the bombing of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, these things are unbelievably important to the world as a whole, and particularly to America and Japan. You’re then looking at, okay, how do you take on something that’s so much bigger than what a movie can be, in a way, and taking the real-life person, taking the opposite approach to Dunkirk and saying, okay, this is actually his experience, and we’re going to lock into his point of view on everything.

Then the other thread, the more objective thread comes in, in order to give you the necessary exposition about what happens to him later in life, about the politics, about how his actions then interact with the establishment, and introduces this character of Lewis Strauss that I became very, very obsessed with – and Robert Downey Jr ultimately played him in the film – and their relationship. I looked at it from almost the Salieri-Mozart view from Amadeus, which is a wonderful, wonderful play and then film, about rivalry and the weirdly trivial personal interactions that can drive a very destructive rivalry.

John: How early in the process did you have a sense of thematically… You knew that you were talking about Oppenheimer. You had a sense that Strauss would be the other central character. But was it during the writing process that you found those thematic things that tied together? You talked about rhymes that happen. Compartmentalization as a theme, the way that you try to hold different parts of your life separate, the question of who wants to justify their whole life, which is asked twice in the course of the story, when did you know that those were going to be some of the central questions and how things would thread together? You say you hold off writing as long as you can, then you sit down to do it. But how much discovery is actually happening while you’re typing?

Christopher: Enormous amounts. All the things you mentioned were discoveries of actually writing. What I try to come up with is the parameters. The structure’s very important, but the parameters, what the film’s going to be, what the three-act structure’s going to be. But you have to leave room to play. I love to overwrite, as I was saying earlier.

John: When you say overwrite, are you writing scenes that just go on too long or scenes that you don’t need at all?

Christopher: I tend to not write scenes that I don’t need at all. It’s more within the scene, particularly with the dialogue, I’ll tend to overwrite. It’s almost like stream of consciousness, monologues kind of thing, that you can then winnow away, find what’s in there that’s the thing you’re trying to express.

I think with thematic connections and ideas, I’ll write notes on those, but some of those ultimately prove too self-conscious. You don’t want to get caught doing it. I’ll write a lot of those, write a lot of notes. I don’t use the outline. I don’t use the notes. I’ll write the script. If I get stuck, I’ll then go back through pages and pages of notes, to see did I miss something, was this something. Sometimes you pick things up, and you put them back in. With those kind of elements, the elements you’re talking about are the things that sit outside the narrative in a way. They comment on the narrative. They’re the meta things. They’re very tricky.

John: They’re tricky unless characters are introducing them in ways that are germane to the scenes that they’re in. Compartmentalization is-

Christopher: Exactly.

John: … incredibly important within the context.

Christopher: It naturally starts to become a reflection or an irony that the person must oppose to compartmentalization, as Oppenheimer, and ultimately that’s what makes… It almost defines him by the end of the film. But I wasn’t too self-conscious about that. When I say tricky, I don’t mean… It’s exactly as you say. It has to be germane to the story, or it has to be absolutely necessary so you do it anyway.

There’s a line in Dunkirk that always causes me a certain amount of, I don’t know, guilt or whatever, because I have a soldier late on talk about survival and define survival. I think the line is he says, “Survival is shit. Fear and greed squeeze through the bowels of men.” That’s the thing. I always knew that that’s not a valid line to have a soldier say in the middle of a situation. It’s a very retrospective sentiment. We all have these things. The joy of being a writer-director is you do get the ultimate say onto whether or not it stays. That’s one where it’s like, it’s wrong, but I’m glad it’s in the movie, and I kept it. Luckily, nobody ever demanded I take it out.

I read, years ago, an interview with Paul Thomas Anderson where he talked about things that you write into a script, and you’re like, “Oh, I’ll fix that later.” Quite often, they become things. Quite often, it’s the things that don’t work or the mistakes or the things that don’t quite fit the pattern that you wind up actually valuing, that give the thing its idiosyncrasy. For my process, as I write, I’ve done a lot of thinking, I’ve done a lot of notes about those kind of elements, and then I want to forget them and try and write from the point of view of character and story and what’s really going on in the narrative, what feels necessary.

John: Let’s talk about what’s actually on the page, because your writing style is relatively spare. You talk about you don’t want to intrude and reveal inner character thoughts when the audience wouldn’t necessarily be able to see those. You’re not describing sets much. We’re in these places often, but you’re not giving a lot of set decoration. You’re not talking a lot about wardrobe or props, unless they are used within the moment. Has that always been your style? Has your screenwriting style changed over the last 20, 30 years?

Christopher: I think for me, it’s been a continual journey to try and strip it down. I enjoy that style of writing anyway, but frankly, as scripts have gotten longer and the films have gotten longer and I’m trying to stuff more and more into the sausage, you really do try to strip it down. I try to write scripts that really will be a page a minute, which if you tend to over-describe things or describe things in too literary a way, the scripts are going to get very long. Then is anyone going to trust that you’re actually… I like to be able to look at the bones of it and know when I’m describing that stained glass window that’s behind you right now, that doesn’t take any screen time. I try to write in a way that reflects screen time, that reflects the kinetic energy. Then you strip down to just the necessary beats. Has it changed for me over the years? I think I got better at it. But different films require different approaches as well.

The funny thing is when you’re in it, when you’re writing – I’m sure this is the same for you – these things seem so important and unquestionable. I remember being at a party when I was writing Dunkirk. I was talking to a fellow writer, who writes TV. I said, “I’m doing this thing, and I’ve decided I want to write it with no dialogue,” whatever, and this, that, and the other, and said a few things. Then he said, “Why?” Of course, I had no answer. It was so clear to me that that would be a good thing to do, that that would be inherently somehow positive to strip away dialogue and just go with action for this cinematic thing.

You become very, very convinced – and I think you need to become very convinced – that you’re doing it the only way that it’s possible, the only way that would ever make a good film. Of course, it’s not true, and there are a million different ways to approach things. You try and get the right approach for the film you’re going to make.

John: You talk about kinetic on the page. You definitely sense the editor on the page. You have a tremendous number of pre-laps and post-laps that make it really feel like this is the experience of watching the movie, that the dialogue is going to anticipate the cut, that we’re going to continue on a little bit after the cut. Things are going to braid themselves together well. Someone who didn’t know might just assume, oh, it’s the editor who moved that stuff around, but it’s very deliberate and clear on the page. You get out of scenes with energy leaning forward that tumbles you into the next scene. That’s why the movie can be the length and the size that it is, and it still feels fast and still feels like it’s moving really quickly.

Christopher: There’s something that’s always been very important to me. Dunkirk actually was the extreme of that, because I came up with a structure based on a musical concept of the Shepard Tone, which is this audio illusion of continually rising pitches. I’ve always been interested. I’ve used it in scores for a lot of my films, actually, and for sound effects. The sound of the bat pod in The Dark Knight is a Shepard progression. I figured out that I could apply it to screenwriting, that in that instance of Dunkirk where I’m looking for this incredibly tense experience, I could braid the storylines together in such a way that one of them is always hitting a moment of crisis. There’s no relief in the film whatsoever, which is why the film had to be short, because there’s no time to catch your breath, which is the point of it. It was very important that that work on the page.

When I talked about the script for Dunkirk, I remember I literally said to Emma at some point, “What if we did it without a script? What if we just [indiscernible 39:33]?” She quite sensibly was like, “No, you need to go write the script.” What I was aiming at is looking for a way that the script could become transparent in a way, that it could be the guide for the kinetics of the cinematic action and just show you. I knew what I needed to film in terms of the physics of what was going on and which ships were sinking and what was going on with the mole or whatever. I was trying to look at it as a real-life event and staging it and shooting it. The screenplay was all about the points and moments of energy.

In a way, it’s not that I ever could’ve made the film without the script. I don’t think you can make any good film without a script. But the script was a map for how to edit the footage together, more than any other script I’ve ever written. That was really the whole point of it. It was a map for Lee Smith, my editor on that film, to sit down and go, “Okay, this is how this all works,” and to tell us how to shoot it in a way that would accommodate that.

With Oppenheimer, it’s a more conventional approach, more traditional approach, but always, that same element is important to me, of trying to incorporate editing into the craft of writing, not because you’re trying to jump ahead, because you know where you want [indiscernible 40:47] because that’s what a screenplay needs to do, because you’re writing it for a medium that enjoys this great privilege of Shot A plus Shot B gives you Thought C. One filmmaker I showed Oppenheimer to early on said a really wonderful thing to me. You talked about how the film is all montage. What this filmmaker liked about that was that’s what movies do. That’s what’s unique to the medium.

John: That’s why you didn’t make a play. You could’ve made a play.

Christopher: Exactly.

John: Your sense of those two storylines happening, you could’ve done it as a play, but it’s not a movie. It’s very different structure, very different idea.

Christopher: Exactly. That leads you to this, I don’t know what you want to call it, guiding principle, whatever, impulse, that says that the document of the screenplay has to embrace editing. For me, that has to be part of my writing process, or I’m not using the screenplay for what it can do fully. It’s like tying a hand behind your back. When I talk about overwriting, I’m really talking about within a scene and then all the script as a whole and then trying to winnow it down and just really use editing in a very surgical way, to strip things down, but be able to explore a lot of different ideas at the same time.

John: What is your writing process? When do you like to write? How much are you trying to get done in the course of a day? When you actually sat down to write Oppenheimer, what was your workflow like?

Christopher: I think, like a lot of writers, I like to write about five minutes before I actually start writing, and then I like to write about 10 minutes after I’m finished. I think writing’s very hard and very lonely. Like all writers, I try to find my way to trick myself into it, into whatever. I’ve learned a few things over the years.

When I went to university, I went to a lecture by Julian Barnes, a novelist, and he said a thing that stuck with me and I’ve used myself, which is, at the end of an evening or a day’s work, he’ll try to finish halfway through something, because then when he comes back the next day, he knows where he’s going, and he can get started. That’s something I’ve definitely tried to do. I try to be reasonably disciplined and then write office hours for most of it, and then not do all-nighters or crazy hours until you absolutely have to, until you’re on the case of something.

The thing that I’ve learned, that every writer needs to learn, the thing that I know absolutely, is that feeling you have that you can write something, when you know, “Okay, I’ve got it now,” you have to write exactly then and get it on the page, because that feeling will disappear like a fart in the wind. It’ll be gone. You’ll come back to the desk, and you’ll be like, “What was it?” You can write notes. That’s not going to help. You just have to sit down and write it.

With Oppenheimer, I knew what the end of the film was going to be. That was important to me. It’s always important to know where you’re going with the end, with any movie. But I woke up in the middle of the night with the whole last three or four scenes figured out. I got up in my underpants, went down, crossed the garden into my office, sat and just wrote it. I think I didn’t get my computer. I think I wrote it on a legal pad. But I wrote it as foreseen, and it never changed.

I’ve learned that over the years. It’s a really important thing for everybody to know, because the feeling is so convincing that you’ll always be able to write it. It’s like being drunk, then sobering up, or vice versa. You’re a different person the next day, and you don’t have it anymore, and then you’ve got to think your way back into it.

I also like to use music a lot. What I’ve found is if I use music repetitively in my writing process, that’s another way, it’s another shortcut to getting back into the mindset that you were in a couple days ago, an emotional mindset.

John: At the start of a project, I’ll generally make myself a playlist of like, this is the music that reminds me of what this movie is.

Christopher: Exactly.

John: Then I can play that and like, “Oh, okay.” So if I have to come back to something six months later, “Oh, that’s right, that’s the John who was writing that,” and I can remember what that-

Christopher: Yeah. It’s a huge emotional connection, emotional cue. I find I’m unable to make a playlist in advance. I have to feel it out as I go try different bits of music, try to see what connects me to my excitement about the project. It’s a great shortcut for putting yourself back in a particular emotional state, because I think writing’s a very emotional process. People always view it as an intellectual process, but I actually think the actual writing is emotional. It speaks to that, when I was saying that those elements are tricky, those elements that are about or reflect on the narrative or create connections. Those are the intellectual things. They’re the things we like to discuss. But they have to be emotional. If they’re emotional in the story, then they work.

For me, I think a lot of my note-taking process and a lot of my thinking about what I’m going to do when I write, that is intellectual. I do a lot of diagrams. Big fan of Venn diagrams for different narratives or whatever. When I go to write, then I have to be in an emotional state, and I have to write from an emotional perspective.

John: Absolutely. You said those last scenes you wrote, they didn’t change at all, but looking through the script, I do see blue revisions, pink revisions, yellow revisions, so some stuff changed along the way. I asked because I’m working on the Scriptnotes book right now, which is due January 5th. Oh, god. The chapter I just went through was on script revision. Can you talk about what changed from the first draft to later drafts? Were they things you didn’t need, new stuff you decided to add? What was the process of changing stuff?

Christopher: When you’re into the color pages and you’re looking at those production revisions, that’s a complicated issue, because I’m a writer-director, so I will literally sometimes… I remember sitting on LaSalle Street in Chicago filming The Dark Knight. We flipped the [indiscernible 46:48]. I sat down on my laptop, and I wrote a scene and handed it to Gary Oldman or whatever. You’re often creating production revisions under different circumstances than they would normally track if you were in a writers’ room, for example, or if you weren’t on set. Quite often, the changes are weird little… We can’t shoot it in the barn; we’ve got to shoot it in the bar or whatever. You just change that. Then there are fundamental things.

For me, I think what changed in Oppenheimer, there weren’t enormous changes, but things evolved. This is why I very much enjoy directing my own material, being a writer-director, because things like the raindrops as an image, that wasn’t in the draft originally. That came. It’s not on page 1 of the script, because I didn’t want to put it in after the fact and pretend that it was being written that way. It was something that was indicated later in the script. Then as I came to think about it in logistic terms, it’s like, “Okay, that can play as a coda. It could play at the front. There’s things we can do with that.” It has more prominent placement in the finished film. With Jen Lame, my editor, her input, we’re saying, “Let’s try this right up front and really lead with it.”

But over the course of making the film, we started to make the correspondence between this image of the ripples and raindrops and then what he might see when he looks at a map, the circles of fire. I was getting Andrew Jackson, my visual effects supervisor, to make these things up on the spot, say, “Let’s take that raindrop footage, let’s re-project it somewhere, and let’s play around with it.” You’re developing these thematic visual ideas.

I try to use the script as an evolving document, and I try to keep it up to date, because for my own thinking, you can have a clever idea or an idea you think is good, based on what you’re shooting or what’s going on on set. But if it doesn’t work in the screenplay format, it’s probably not as good as you think, actually. I do try to keep the script up to date. I’m not trying to be mysterious with the crew and with my collaborators about how I’m going to use images. I’m trying to keep everybody up to date.

John: That’s great. It’s come time in our podcast where we do One Cool Things, where we recommend things to our listeners that they might want to check out. You have a book recommendation, apparently.

Christopher: I do. When We Cease to Understand the World by Benjamin Labatut. It was recommended to me by Alejandro González Iñárritu. It’s a fabulous book that deals with a lot of the things that Oppenheimer deals with. It deals with these brilliant minds and all sorts of extraordinary things in history. Very readable. I highly recommend it.

John: Excellent. Great. We’ll put that in the notes. My One Cool Thing is called Infinite Mac. It’s this emulator that just runs in your browser. You go to the site, and suddenly it’s like you’re in a time machine. You can fire up any old Macintosh. It just gave me such a rush of nostalgia for like, “Oh, I remember what that was like.” Suddenly, you’re on the desktop of a very old Mac SE running system 5.2 or whatever. You forget how stuff used to work. You forget just how floppy disks used to work and all the apps that were so important to me in the time, that are now all gone.

Christopher: I don’t. I’m still using them.

John: It’ll be all new stuff for you.

Christopher: It’d be brand new.

John: Time travel for me.

Christopher: Yes, it’s time looping back on itself. I remember very clearly. I’ve always used ScriptThing, which then became Movie Magic. I remember when it went to Windows, and it slowed down tremendously. I was like, “Can you run it on DOS?” You could run it on DOS. It has a DOS emulator within Windows.

John: Wild.

Christopher: I am the ultimate Luddite. I still go back to my Royal manual typewriter and do the odd scene on that just to reconnect with it.

John: That’s fantastic. Then I’ll send you another One Cool Thing. Someone sent through, the app that we make called Highland, it’s a guy who types on a manual typewriter, but then you basically take a photo of the page, and it scans it in, and it makes it an editable document. It’s if you want to write on a real typewriter, and then it scans it in, so therefore then it can be an editable document [crosstalk 51:12].

Christopher: That, I need.

John: Just for you, we’ll send you that link.

Christopher: Please do. That sounds fantastic.

John: That was our show. Scriptnotes is produced by Drew Marquardt. It is edited by Matthew Chilelli, who also did our outro this week. If you have an outro, you can send us a link to ask@johnaugust.com. That’s also the place where you can send questions. You will find the show notes for this episode and all episodes at johnaugust.com. That’s where you’ll find transcripts and sign up for our weekly newsletter called Inneresting, which has lots of links to things about writing. We have T-shirts and hoodies that are great. You can find them at Cotton Bureau. You can sign up to become a premium member at scriptnotes.net, where you get all the back-episodes and bonus segments, like the one we’re about to record on dreams. Christopher Nolan, an absolute pleasure to get to talk to you about screenwriting.

Christopher: I’ve really enjoyed it. Thanks for having me on.

John: Cool.

[Bonus Segment]

John: Jamie in San Francisco, he wrote in to ask, “I wonder if you could talk a bit about the use of dreams in screenplays. John describes dreams as the brain doing laundry or taking out the trash. Craig attributes no meaning or significance to his own dreams. But in movies, it seems the opposite is almost always the case. More often than not, they show us the past or the future or some deeper meaning to the present. Are they a crutch? Are they overused? Are they tropey? Talk to us about dreams.” You made a whole movie where dreams play a giant role. What is your actual belief about dreams for human beings, but also dreams in movies?

Christopher: Dreams in movies, it’s very complicated. It took me many, many years to crack Inception, because dreams in movies don’t work, basically. They feel like a cheap… They tend to shortchange the audience. The audience has a very sophisticated mechanism for constructing the reality of a film, that when you then invalidate something, your brain discounts it from the narrative enormously. It’s something that I think studios very often don’t understand about scale and how you achieve scale in a movie. You can have crazy, exotic, wild imagery that might look good in the trailer, whatever, but if it’s subverted in the narrative by being, for example, a dream, it gets written off.

It took me a long time to crack it. I thought a lot about why are dreams problematic in movies. I think it’s because movies are already dreams. I think the way we process films is very similar to the way we process dreams. They are collective dreams in a way. When you write dreams, it’s a hat on a hat. It becomes self-canceling if not handled in the right way.

I think with Inception, I think the way I managed that was to keep dreams extremely grounded and make a big point of the fact that you don’t know you’re in a dream when you’re dreaming it, those kind of things, and constantly remind and involve the audience in the mechanics of the technology that’s using the dreams. The film rarely allows itself to become too metaphysical, too poetic, in the way that dreams often are in films. I think they’re very tricky.

As far as in real life, what are they, that’s hard to answer really. I think they’re our way of processing our lives in a different way, looking at them from a different angle. I think they’re a very healthy and necessary process. I also think, as I say, that films have a wonderful relationship with dreaming and with dreams, and they are our way of connecting. We remember films very much the way we remember dreams.

I had a very interesting experience many years ago. I watched David Lynch’s Lost Highway. I had a peculiar experience. I think I was watching it on VHS at home. I did not connect with the film. I found it impenetrable. I found it boring. I almost didn’t finish watching it, because I was watching it on VHS. Put it to one side, whatever. I’d watched it on my own. I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it, wasn’t particularly interested to talk about it. Then about two weeks later, I found myself remembering Lost Highway as if I were remembering one of my own dreams. I realized that however he’d done it, Lynch had found a way… I’m trying to remember which way around it. It is like a tesseract, is a projection of a hypercube, three dimensions.

John: Absolutely.

Christopher: He found a way of un-peeling the way a dream works in our brain, feeding it to us as a narrative, so that it lives in your brain as a dream. I think it’s one of the strongest examples of that connection between the way we process sights and sounds and motion pictures and the way we feel about our own memories and dreams and those confusions.

John: You talking about Memento leads me to another answer to Jamie’s question, is that I think so often dreams don’t work in movies because there are no stakes. There’s no consequence.

Christopher: Exactly.

John: Just characters within that. What you do with Inception so well is that there are huge consequences. The whole thing is about the consequences and the plan for why this dream is happening. We as an audience know why this dream is important, why it matters, and what is at stake for the characters. Nightmare on Elm Street, we know that those dream sequences actually matter, because the character is going to die in a dream.

Christopher: Exactly, or The Matrix. The Matrix, it’s dreaming. It’s induced by the machines, but that simple thing of your mind makes it real and the blood coming out somebody’s nose, and you know, okay, yeah, there are stakes. Very similar to William Gibson novels like Neuromancer, where you have that concept of how you can be hurt. Is it Black Ice? I can’t remember. The internet becoming a thing that can actually hurt you, cyberspace becoming a thing that can actually hurt you. Then yeah, the stakes are there.

But the truth is, I think with dreams in particular, even introducing stakes, there’s still a real danger with the imagery of them, with the fanciful nature of the imagery, and what it buys you and what it doesn’t buy you, how it integrates into the film. You want everything you put in the film to be owned by the narrative. You want it to feel solid and valid as something you’ve paid your $15 for, bought your popcorn. Otherwise, you feel cheated.

In a weird way, it’s a little off topic, but when I showed Ken Branagh the script for Oppenheimer, he did ask me, as a fellow filmmaker – this is why it’s great to work with other filmmakers, even if they’re just acting in a film – but he said to me, “You’re never cutting away to World War II or to the War Room.”

I thought about it. It’s like, okay, I’ve seen a lot of films do that. Particularly in a CG era, those images, they tend to sit as if they’re not in the film. They actually make the film feel smaller. They’re always in there as an attempt to make the film feel bigger, but they actually shrink the world of the film, because they don’t feel valid. They don’t feel earned. As I say, in a CG era, the texture of them will be completely different to the main unit photography. I think the treatment of dreams in films, the other thing it’s like is voiceover. It can be amazing. It can be incredibly useful.

John: It has to be fundamental to the structure of the story.

Christopher: Exactly.

John: It has to be part of the social contract at the very start of the film.

Christopher: Exactly.

John: Clueless doesn’t work without the voiceover, but if you try to put that in after the fact, disaster.

Christopher: Yes, and giving voiceover a bad name, because most often when you see it, somebody slapped it on at the end to try to make it work. But done right, planned, put into the script, that’s when it works.

John: Jamie did not know he was going to get you answering his question about dreams. I think Jamie’s probably very excited that you weighed in here. Christopher Nolan, thank you again.

Christopher: Thank you.

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